Saturday, February 17, 2018

You're expected to contextualize yourself

Something that troubled me for a long time, but in a vague way where I couldn't put my finger on it, is the pressure that society exerts on people to insert themselves into a specific context. It took into my late 20s before the rough outlines of the problem took shape. Society, it turns out, demands that you define yourself as a bunch of things. You're supposed to be a gender, a race, a religion, a political affialiation, etc.

When I was a teenager, one of the biggest difficulties I faced is that I didn't define myself as anything in particular. I was smart, but I definitely knew I didn't want to be one of the smart kids. If you have any experience of American society, you know that the smart kids are not the place to be. Being a smart kid carries with it a certain aspiration. You're supposed to want to achieve some list of upper middle class things that matter. Good grades. Good college. Good job. Good life.

None of that really rung true for me. I've never enjoyed doing things from a list. I bore too easily for that to work.

I also completely whiffed on the importance of carving out an identity, contextualizing myself. I mean, it literally never crossed my mind that I was supposed to be defining myself when I was growing up. Even now, with an understanding of the idea, it feels very alien to me.

Not just socially alien. I mean, alien in the sense that you would feel extremely fucking stupid if everyone expected you to glue a fake third arm to your torso and use it because that's what they do. It wouldn't matter whether you glued the arm or not. Glue it on, and you'll feel like a fucking idiot because you don't need a third arm, so fuck that. Don't glue it on, and you'll still live with the weird realization that everyone glues on a fake third arm they don't need.

I've never been someone to put on a performance for others. I don't mean that in the sense that people do when they say, "I'm keepin shit real." Keepin it real is just a performance focused on conspicuous authenticity. It's still a performance conducted for the benefit of others in understand how you contextualize yourself in the tribe. You're the realest motherfucker who ever realed. Basically, modern hipsterism.

What always confused me when I was younger, though, was the anger that comes back when you refuse to perform for others. I'm not talking the nee-neener stuff that's typical of dumb human bullying. I'm talking the sub-psychotic rage that people feel when you don't give them an opening to get what they want.

The Contract of Mutual Performance

Part of the implied contract of the great human circlejerk is that I'll perform for you, and you'll perform for me. If I do all the steps to the dance, then I'll get the reward I want.

It's astonishing how embedded this is. You see it when you fail to perform your half of the dance, and that ultimately leads to them being denied the reward they seek. I've seen people literally go into blue screen of death mode. I've seen a lot more of them blow up to try to instigate shit.

The assumption baked into all human interactions is that everyone is involved in a game. If you fail to give someone their reward for playing the game, it's a judgment upon them. Shit doesn't just happen. The net effect is that people get pissed when they don't get theirs, even if you've displayed zero interest in doing the dance with them. It's your job, as a member of a society, to play the game.

What's funny is that human beings don't react by assuming you're an alien to their society. Again, shit doesn't just happen. You've devalidated them, and that triggers a rush of angry emotions.

People will do one of two things:

1) They will try to explain you away, but within a context that suits them.

2) They will get angry.

The funny thing about explaining you away is that the context still has to fit their cultural norms. For example, the guy who doesn't want to fuck the young chick who's offering herself up must be gay. It's not a point up for debate, because the alternative answer is that she isn't as hawt as she thinks herself to be. And . . . well . . . all the guys who've dry humped her leg stand as testament to her hawtness, so . . . fuck that.

As a human being, you're never allowed to exist outside a context. You're supposed to be actively fostering an identity that allows others to trade with you in order to get what they want. It's also understood that you're supposed to be trying to maximize your returns. It's not enough that you might want pussy. You're also expected to maximize the amount and/or quality of pussy you get.

I never understood that as a teenager. Or as a college student. I really only had a vague outline of the idea by my late 20s. It was only in my 30s that I figured it out.

Even when i arrived at a full realization, it was simply a piece of information. I didn't suddenly say, "Huzzah! Now I can slay the pussy!" I definitely understood the implication, and I did act on it when it suited me. I just didn't see it as something that necessarily defined me.

I still don't see anything as defining me, but lack of self-definition isn't acceptable. Again, you're job in contextualizing yourself is to facilitate trade. That includes the trade of your companionship and your seed. You're supposed to leverage whatever you can achieve with your status to breed to the best of your ability. If you don't do that, then you're either gay or . . . well, there isn't another option.

The funny thing with the fixation that people have with assuming a person is gay because of their non-responsiveness is that it still assumes you're open to trade. In other words, the underpinning logic is that the rejected woman simply failed to bring the right goods for trade. If she had the right goods for trade, then you would've activated and sex would've ensued.

FTR, I say from personal experience that it takes a while to fully exhaust this logic. I can remember being out in a very seedy underground nightclub a little over a year ago, and I just wasn't feeling it. A lot of time I just get out to get out. Sometimes the best cure to the blahs is to just go do anything, even if you're not going out with intent.

This guy who I kinda half-recognized from being around the same scene a few times decided to chat me up. To be clear, he was what I can only politely call obviously gay. I'm arrogant enough that just because I'm not gonna fuck you doesn't mean I won't drop a little aloof game on you just for the joy of emotional sadism.

I told him upfront I was straight, because there's really nothing that amps the feeling of emotional sadism up like watching a person bash their head against the wall against all reason. Don't get me wrong; I get why he thought it was worth a try. I wasn't feeling it in a dark room full of barely clothed women who were writhing all night. It's hard for me to ever put my finger on what precisely clicks for me with a chick. I just know when it happens.

I can't particularly remember the guy's sales pitch, except for some sort of creepy guy game he dropped in the form of "You know you're a very good-looking person." Like I'm supposed to be just so flattered that suddenly I'm going to fuck him after ignoring his advances. He eventually gets tired of failing and leaves well enough alone. By most standards, a slightly sad-for-him but whatever ending. He took his shot, so yay champ.

Therein lies my point. It always takes a long time for people to just give up and leave me be.

I cannot for the life of me tell you why sometimes the switch just trips on. I just know that the bulk of the time that it doesn't switch on, no matter how much futile social dancing you do to induce me to trade. The irony here being that physical dancing very much improves your odds. It's worth a try.

What depresses me a bit about human existence is knowing that I'll be subjected to anger for not wanting to contextualize myself in a way that facilitates sex. If I'm lucky, I might be subjected to being asked if I'm asexual. I'm not, but I at least respect the rare person who can be bothered to think outside the box.

In truth, I'm just so very bored. An occasional woman comes along who's exciting enough to cut through that boredom, and there's a good chance I might fuck her. Most people, though, are dreadfully boring, and I get far more entertainment out of watching them contort themselves trying to get my attention.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Written by women, for women

If you read the blog much, you know I have a lot of misgivings about politics. More accurately, I have misgivings about politicization. Politics, I suppose, is just an extension of humans humaning. I pretty much skipped 2016 and 2017 because of the US election and the whole Donald Trump thing, though you can watch me try to handle my gag reflex over the coming right-wing, male shitnado from back in January of 2015.

I suppose I should've had some thoughts on the inevitable left-wing, female counter-reaction of 2017 and 2018, but I was just keeping my head down trying not to get sprayed in shit. Seriously, people suck in as many directions as there are on an eleven-dimensional compass. Who knew?

If you keep up with the confluence of American pop culture and politics, you've probably caught the revenge porn-y story of Aziz Ansari, a dopey manlet of a half-comedian whose virtue signaling attempts at feminism pretty much prepositioned him for a shit sandwich. (I don't really hate the guy, but goddamn is his comedy lame. He did do a joke about a sweater that was good, though, so there's that. I really don't get the whole attentionwhore-industrial complex at all.)

Imaginably, this led to whatever passes for soul searching these days. You know, motherfuckers creating clickbait from every angle and seeing which angle agitates the most clicks. There was the genre of "creepy/lame is as bad as rape, and every allegation should treated as gospel". (No it isn't, and OMFG what happened to due process?!?!) There was the genre of "Oh, this counter-reactionary shit is going too far." (Probably, but such is the nature of cultural reactions, counter-reactions, and over-reactions. I mean, Hollywood isn't exactly turning into Romania after the fall of communism.)

Then there was my favorite: the "Is our boys learnin?" genre.

The one that actually tipped me over into writing an article was this one: When Pop Culture Sells Dangerous Myths About Romance.

It actually starts out with a pretty good case. Fundamentally it boils down to "Say Anything" is a creepy fuck movie, and it's romanticization is dumb and wrong.

But, from the beginning there are references that piss me off. Specifically, the idea that the disgusting pop culture trash that women produce for women somehow informs the rape-y-ness of guys. You know what I'm talking about. 50 Shades of Grey. Twilight. Gossip Girl.

It's not the majority of the rape culture playlist, but it's definitely worth asking an important question: why the fuck do women like rape-y stories so much?

I'm a believer that the common female fantasy is the product of a desire to be desired. There's even a bit of a humblebrag component there. It basically translates to, "I'm so fuckin hawt that guy was ready to rape me."

It doesn't change the fact, however, that some of the most questionable rape culture artifacts are aimed at women as the primary consumers. Guys didn't learn anything from the movie Say Anything because they stopped paying attention to the plot fifteen minutes in.

Worse, some of the rape-y-est shit is written by women, for women. I mean, EL James read Twilight and pretty much said, "Oh, you think your gross stalker story was rape-y? Hold my fuckin beer. I'm gonna write some full-on dubious consent porn fanfic that includes relentless acts of emotional sadism and irregular deviations from an established model of affirmative consent. Poorly. Very poorly. Daringly poorly."

It's mind blowing. Frankly, feminism needs to get its house the fuck in order. Or face the fact that there's something really deep-down fucking dark in women's souls that's attracted to aggressive sexual predation.

If I saw someone constantly feasting on shit and always finding ways to only dine at places that served actual human feces, I would assume that person has some form of coprophagia. I would assume, despite any protests to the contrary, that their relentless consumption of actual shit was a demonstration of a love for eating shit. Because seriously, who complains about eating shit and then demands that they be served shit that was prepared by other shit eaters?

In the whole #MeToo movement, there's a lot of truth. I mean, even hardcore Red Pill gamers would acknowledge that jerking off into a potted plant in front of an actress is probably not even Plan Z, let alone Plan A. Or that it's even a plan as much as a gross reaction to having your plan stunted before it could bloom into whatever dubious consent scenario you were hoping for as the person with all the power. It's the sort of profound truth that shouldn't be profound, but apparently is for some guys. Again, humans suck in more directions than three-dimensional space can accurately describe.

Once you start trending into the Aziz Ansari territory, especially equating him to Harvey Weinstein, I'm out. Fuck you. That shit was revenge porn.

And do we really need to reframe the story as an object lesson in how boys are learning the wrong things?

Also, who the fuck thinks that any straight boys were watching Say Anything? Trust me, they were watching Fight Club and dreaming of the day they could find a hawt goth chick and fuck here like Tyler Durden. Seriously, it's literally written all over the PUA blogs. There was even a modestly famous PUA who went by the handle of Tyler Durden.

I mean, if you're gonna discuss heteronormative male sexuality, it might be instructive to start by looking at heteronormative male sexuality. Cuz talking about Say Anything and a bunch of whiny love songs is actually studying products that we manufactured for heteronormatively female consumers.

But that's not what we're doing. It seems that women don't even have the cultural vocabulary to describe how men see sex. Apparently women really are from Omicron Persei 7 and men are from Omicron Persei 9.

Conversely, men I don't think even have the right anatomical charts in their heads to describe the female experience. Seriously, there are right now a bunch of Jesus-y Mike Pence motherfuckers running around this world objecting to the use of birth control while not realizing precisely why they don't 20 children. (Hint: it's birth control.)

The problem is that rewarding aggression essentially triggers compound interest. If you reward one sexually aggressive man, you can expect two more to appear. And women reward male sexual aggression. In fact, they write Homeric epics about it.

If you think about it from an evolutionary standpoint, what is the downside for the Y chromosome in being sexually aggressive? If you're hot and it works, congratulations on being hot. If you're hideous and it fails, well it was at least worth a try because you're unfuckably hideous. (And you can apparently always just release your pent up tension into a potted plant. Again, who knew?)

One of the biggest reasons so many guys think all feminism is bullshit is because women are, frankly, sitting on the wrong side of the old "physician heal thyself" invocation. Women treat everything as an externality. The title of Hillary Clinton's book after she lost the 2016 election was "What Happened?"

I talked a bit about this problem three years ago on the blog. I will now crassly quote myself because I have fucking earned the right to do so . . .

For women life is something that happens to them.
Women seem to collectively refuse to take responsibility for their own sexuality, even a solid 50 years into the supposed sexual revolution. Everything in the world is a set of externalities acting upon them. There's never a point where women ask themselves, "Why do we consume so much pop culture materials that is seriously rape-y AF?" Women never ask themselves serious questions about their own romanticization of rape. Instead, they pretend that hetero boys actually watched Say Anything and took away a lesson from it. (They didn't, and they didn't. Again, they were watching Fight Club. I cannot emphasize that strongly enough.)

Women like men who treat women like dirt. I mean, there's a fuckin reason that Pride and Prejudice is one of the most republished and repurposed more than anything in the English language outside of Shakespeare and the Bible. Women get wet for Mr. Darcy, and I probably should be concerned that they also get wet for Christian Grey. (Hmmm . . . what's the commoanlity?) Ladies sure seem to like their emotional sadism and dubious consent, yesno?

Until women can explain with a straight face why they so thoroughly enjoy literature that involves hot rich guys treating them like utter dogshit, they're not going to be taken seriously. So . . . what I'm actually saying is that women will never be taken seriously, because treating women like dogshit is pretty much the same as giving hydrocodone to a fentanyl junkie: deep down they wish you'd give them even harder shit to get fucked up on.

Until women are willing to cross the Rubicon into city of their own desires, they're not going to come up the winners in this fight. As the leading consumers of rape fantasy porn, it's on women to embargo themselves.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Why so aloof? Sometimes The Second Girl wins

If you've read much of my blog, you might have noticed a pattern that occurs when I describe social sets. I'm talking to one chick, and then her friend cuts in. You can see a prime example here. I'm not a huge fan of a lot of PUA-type theories, but I think social proof, the notion that people find something more interesting if they see others coveting it, is a solid one worth keeping mind.

This post has been on my mind for a while, but I've wanted to process it. Back in January of this year, 2017, I had met a chick at a fairly large party, north of 100 people in a private space that a friend of mine has access to. I was talking with some friends, and the conversation was getting pretty loud -- the kind of loud that attracts additional participants.

This girl who had been sitting by herself in the far corner of the room comes over, asks to sit down at the table where I'm standing. I say sure and keep going at the conversation. She's trying to participate, but she's pretty demure and this is a really loud and raucous set.

Eventually three of her friends show up and join the conversation. We're all BSing and eventually the topic turns to BDSM. One of my male friends I had been talking to and a completely separate female friend who was there are both heavy into some serious shit. I've been known to partake, too.

The Quiet Girl is intrigued and trying to steer the conversation. However, two of her three friends are much more boisterous. The one is in a committed relationship. The other is recently divorced, and she's little thick in the way I tend to like my women -- small top along with serious ass and thighs.

Every one of them is somewhere between pretty to downright knockout. The Committed Chick is a professionally trained dancer, 26, and frankly a high 9 in hawtness. The Thick Girl, 29, is a former competitive horse rider. The two demure girls are sisters, 20 and 25, both a little skinnier than I tend to like.

At some point, the conversation turn to pain tolerance. When it comes to consensual sexual violence, this is my wheelhouse. Not something I bring up much on the blog, but I don't fuckin play when it comes to hair pulling, spanking, pinching, etc. I've had partners look like they were in an auto accident when I was done.

The Thick Girl has been nudging in and trying to get my attention. She's definitely trying to cut her friends out.

At this particular moment, she decides she's gonna play big, and says she's always wanted to try BDSM. My male friend who's into it says something about having the right equipment with him, and he asks her if she wants to try nipple clamps.

Occasionally, I am possessed of the right thing to say. There are just moments where I can draw a line from A to B to C, and this was one of them. I looked at the Thick Girl and said, "No need. I can do it bare-handed."

She looks instantly interested. Pulls her shirt up. Pulls her bra down. present titties.

I look at her and say, "This is gonna hurt. I've had women say it's worse than nursing a teething child."

She laughs and leans in. I say, "Alright." I grab a nipple, and she drops to the floor in pain, barely missing the table with her face.

She's laughing, but not getting up. There's a whole room of people sort of waiting to see how this plays out. I just keep looking at her in agony.

Finally, after more than a full minute, she pulls herself up by the table. I ask her how it felt. She replies, "OMG, that was painful but I loved it!"

The room is relieved. My female friend asks her if she is okay. The Thick Girl says yes.

After a couple hours, we decide to go barhopping with the group. By this point, the Thick Girl is flying on raw energy after some dancing with me and a little more physicality (not anything quite so vicious as the initial nipple pinch, mind you).

She drifts off several times, and eventually the Quite Girl works her way over to me and we start talking. She's dropping indications of interest left and right. Knee touches, etc. Laughing at all my jokes.

I don't think too much of it because by this stage I have the Thick Girl eating out of the palm of my hand. She's grabbing drinks for the group, dancing with every guy there, laughing, and even torturing a beta male friend who's the manager of the place we settled down at to keep drinking.

I'm in full social game mode by this point. I even start up a conversation with a whole separate set of women who were there when I realize they all were alumni from the university I attended.

This ends up being an almost going til dawn kinda thing, as the two groups of women merge into one giant pile, along with me, the beta male friend, and another male friend of the first group who decides to move in on the alumni association. (Strangely enough, the Committed Girl's BF shows up, but he doesn't participate. Conversely, that dude was pretty fuckin hot in his own right, so . . . can't envy a winner too hard, man.)

Eventually the Thick Girl and I trade information and part ways. We make sure to set a date for the next weekend.

Party Hard

Next weekend comes, and I set up a date at what is as underground of a club as I know. This is the full people on Molly type place. I've seen it go to 10am. This is as sexualized a club environment as you'll ever see -- I've seen people literally fuck on the dance floor.

The Thick Girl calls me a little before midnight when we're supposed to meet up, and she's basically complaining that the Quiet Girl wants to come out with us. I don't have an issue with this, but apparently the Thick Girl is already in mate-guarding mode. I tell her to just sort it the fuck out because I'm gonna go get my party on with or without them. (Even when I have my social game on, aloof and uninvested is always a card I'm willing to play.)

Imaginably, she finds a way to appear -- without the Quiet Girl -- within ten minutes. To say things went the direction I went them to would be an understatement. And she was pretty damned vicious. This is full-on, back-and-forth, fucking up-against-the-wall in public shit. She even smacked me in the face. (Which followers of the blog will recall, is a go sign for me.)

I also win the "who has more energy game". She gave up and went home at 3am. I kept going and picked up another chick by 5am for a session of totally disposable makeout and titty play. (I'm a dedicated ass man, but damn that girl had some titties.)

By the middle of the next week, the Thick Girl is in emotionally deep. Probably a little deeper than is healthy. She's in full-bore "I need to hear your voice" at 2am on a Wednesday night mode. There's a lot of the standard barfing her emotional guts out to me stuff, which, again, you'll find happens a lot with me, as seen here.

She also gets into some comfort testing, emotional support stuff. And that's where things kind of went downhill. I told her this is a lot to pin on a guy she met a couple weekends ago and that she should be leaning on her friends for that kinda thing. Then she admits that the friend who serves that role is normally the Quiet Girl, and . . . well, you can imagine how that worked out.

This goes on like this for a couple more weeks until it becomes pretty clear to her that I'm intense but not the perfect guy. I'm a good conversationalist, but you'll find a limit to what that actually gets ya. I confess I did some pretty shitty things, like telling her about the 5am Titty Girl when she asked what I did the rest of that night. I also told her she shouldn't fuck up her friendship over a guy -- which, ya know, ladies, is actually pretty goddamned good advice.

As you can imagine, that sort of emotional and physical intensity is unsustainable. The End.


There's a lot to unpack from that story.

Probably the most obvious for regular readers is something to the order of "holy shit, that's a lot of social game for an aloof guy!" It is. As I've said elsewhere, though, I can roll social game hard when I feel the impulse to do so.

I do think it's funny how many times I go for the girl who cuts in. I love energy and verve from women. It works. Ladies, if you're trying to win a social set, it's definitely worth a try.

One thing that sticks out in my mind is how much women treat their close friends as sexual competitors. It never fails to amaze me how much effort they'll put into cutting in to grab a potential mate and then completely cutting their friends out in a retention effort.

I probably should have given the Quiet Girl more attention, but I've learned over the years to focus on banking the clear win when I have one lined up. You can definitely fuck yourself up trying to make a harem play or shooting for a threesome. Given the Thick Girl's later emotional outbursts and demonstrated mate guarding behaviors, I feel like that was the right play.

The Thick Girl and the Committed Girl were the queen bees of the group, and I feel pretty confident that favoring the Quiet Girl would have been a uniquely bad plan. Cutting against the queen bees when they're still present tends to backfire.

Anyway . . . for once you kids get a pretty detailed and relatively non-aloof story (if you just ignore the part where the Quiet Girl loses bigly).

Probably some good social dynamics stuff to ponder in there. A lot to be said for being a little outrageous and making yourself the center of attention in a social set. It probably helps that my male friend (the guy into BDSm who's mentioned waaaay early in the story) was a skinny dude who wasn't gettin any love from the girls at the initial party. If you can use your male friends as props, well . . . hey, at least he got to see some titties, right? He still retells that story.

There ya go. A relatively non-aloof tale from the Aloof Guy.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

If I tossed your dog shit comment, that means it was dog shit

Comment moderation is on, people. Make peace with that fact. If I think you're trying some lame ass shit to get me to moderate a comment and show it, I'm tossing it.

My view on dumbfuck commenters is the same as what they tell you about old meat in your fridge: when in doubt, throw it out.

Monday, December 12, 2016

A Great Attention Whore, or THE GREATEST Attention Whore EVER? You decide

It's been a while since I've posted anything. That's mostly a case of why repeat the same shit. It took time, but . . . NOVELTY IS UPON US! I spent the better part of this weekend working over a single, large social group in a club setting. Infiltrating a large group isn't usually my preferred play, but this was a case where I could see an easy path forward.

The Group

The group itself consists of six women, three guys (not including me, because I'm-an-outsider-FTW). One of the guys is an ex-boyfriend of one of the chicks who just hasn't figured that fact out yet. The other two are the worst form of beta orbiters imaginable. Of the chicks, I'd say one is legitimately high-end hot, one is a full point behind her, two are legitimately cute, one is okay, and one is a legitimate slag who starts shit (God bless the commitment of female-centered groups to keeping one genuine "why do you even talk to her" chick in the group).

The females I'd count as a solid 8, two 7s, a 6, a 5, and a soft 3.5 (I'm kindly awarding the slag an additional half point for at least being clean, dressed decently, and doing her hair -- even slags deserve an attaboy. Remember ladies: got yer hair did is a full half-point.). All three of the guys are beta enough to not count.

The Situation

The problem is that the one 7 is a monstrous attention whore. As you might guess, the two beta orbiters basically spent the whole weekend backing up dump trucks full of affirmation and pouring it on her.

She's a super-cute spinner type who, frankly, could upgrade her game a little and improve a full point. She's a skinny but not in-shape person who could easily tighten her body up and get hotter, but she's also the motor of the group. She's the one dancing with everybody, the one singing karaoke, etc. Those beer carbs giveth, and they taketh away.

To say the 8 knows her status in the group would be an understatement. The betas aren't even allowed to talk to her, and she seems to be the only one in the group who was allowed to shit test me.

The other 7 ended up being my real target. Pretty blonde girl with a big enough butt to make her self-conscious. She didn't let guys grind on her or anything the whole weekend -- and this is a majority black club, so that's some real effort on her part. Demure, well-behaved, put-together type who parked herself next to me when we went for food at the end of the second night, and she kept finding ways to quickly touch me and then pull away before it became too forward. That sort of behavior in women is the fast path to having my attention.

Enter the Attention Whore

This is the point where the Attention Whore made what I can only call the least subtle move I have ever seen a chick make. Three of us were seated along the bar while our food was coming out (me, the 8, and the blonde 7) and turned to watch people doing karaoke. Attention Whore and the orbiters were, no surprise, doing karaoke because, ya know, hell is other people. The 6, the 5, the slag and the boyfriend got lost at some point.

When my order came, I stood up, turned around and asked the bartender for some ketchup. I gamed her a little bit, we chuckled, whatever. Those nice, fun, mini practice games are always a good way to get your energy up.

I suddenly feel the Attention Whore literally pushing against me as she leans across the bar. She's parked herself in the seat I just vacated, and she's trying to achieve as much body-to-body contact as possible.

The 8 and the blonde 7 shut down instantly. All banter done. All talk done.

I literally grabbed the chair and lifted it and her a full foot away from me to convey my displeasure. One of the beta orbiters ambles over and tries meekly to game her, and I do everything in my power to redirect her bullshit toward him. Finally, I just turn and start eating because food.

Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She moves back over, but this time settles for elbow-to-elbow contact. (For those who think women don't do game, just remember this chick was recalibrating!) She leans in, asks if she can have some of my french fries. There's like one-quarter of the GDP of Idaho sitting there, so I told her have at.

Sure enough, the shit-testing 8 doesn't miss a beat. "Are you really just gonna let her eat your fries like that?"  I said something to the effect of "I don't need all of that. She's doing me a favor." (Apparently, you can fail a shit test by not displaying an appropriate level of food aggression! Next time I guess I'll just have to snap a 95-pound girl's wrist to make sure the queen bee knows I'm a legit insanity wolf.)

I resume eating, and for grins I start talking up the beta orbiter and no one else. All bitches are on lockdown until further notice.

Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She taps me on the shoulder and starts trying to feed me. I wave her off and say, "Don't get weird." (Yes, I dropped a People of Earth joke on her.)

Both of the beta orbiters are moving in, and I try to work them into the conversation in order to enforce the freeze out. The blonde 7 senses the opening and tries to get back in the game, but don't worry because the Attention Whore isn't subtle. She gets up for a second, adjusts her chair and sits down facing the blonde while simultaneously forcing ass-to-crotch contact with me. A minute later, the 8 cuts between the blonde and the Attention Whore. The blonde is now literally being double-covered by the two most socially dominant females in the group.

Apparently, the 8 is very committed to her food aggression plan, because she starts taking french fries without asking and even manages to swipe a half-eaten chicken finger. I confess at this point I'm feeling rather dispirited and wondering why the fuck I deviated into group game, which is not my preferred game.

The Attention Whore now decides to grab a wad of french fries, jams them two inches away from my mouth and says, "It's not weird." My inner white trash peeks out at that moment, because I glared at her and said, "I don't know you ferfuck. It's weird." She puts the fries down and pushes her ass into me. She then offers the fries again, muttering and pouting,"It's not weird." I push her hand down, but I did give her a pretty good squeeze on the ass cheek because I'm honestly at the point where, fuck it, I'm not even the one running game at this point and I know it.

A Slag Appears

I fucking swear women can smell from a mile away when a superior member of their group is trying to ice the deal with a guy. The slag comes into the bar from outside and immediately invokes some sort of treaty obligation under the Slag-Attention Whore Axis demanding backup in her full-blown attempt to make the 5's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend status official. This is full shit-starting five-alarm slaggery, complete with claims that he threatened to hit her.

Faced with having to abandon her positional advantage, the Attention Whore suddenly becomes the sanest and most reasonable person on earth. "Is 5 in a safe spot?" "Sure, next door at the pizza place." "Are they going anywhere?" "No." "6 is with her, right?" "Yeah." "Then leave it the fuck be."

Clearly, Henry Kissinger was right: great powers don't commit suicide to save their allies.

Don't worry, the 8 now senses her chance to fuckin ruin everything for everyone. A full demonstration of the 8's social dominance ensues, as she grabs the blonde 7 by the arm and pushes the two beta orbiters out the door to ride posse on the destruction of her friend's relationship. The Attention Whore has "dafuq" written all over her face, but once the rest of the group is outside, she follows without saying a word to me.

I ask the bartender where the bathroom is and go take a piss. Eventually I walk outside and past the pizza place. At this stage, apparently the 5 is now fighting to preserve her boyfriend's status with all the other group members in full-bore pitchfork mode. The now-ex-boyfriend sees me walking away from the pile and asks if I care if he walks with me. We get about half-a-block before the slag goes into full screaming bitch mode and draws the ex-boyfriend back into the fight. At this point, I'm prepared to amputate above the knee, so I leave him to his fate and go find my car a couple blocks away.


As I'm writing all of that out, I'm realizing there are other moving parts definitely in play besides the Attention Whore. Clearly I walked into a situation where the knives were already out, and I totally failed to ask the question, "What y'all holdin behind yer backs?"

I've never dealt with a group situation that got this ridiculous, but there's a sick sort of beauty to how it all unfolded. I start out feeling like I have the situation on a good track with the blonde 7, but I literally turned my back for a minute and a fuckin prairie war breaks out.

I'm not even clear what the fuckin 8 who dominated the group was trying to accomplish. I wouldn't rule out the possibility this was a case of her pissing on everyone just to remind them who the fuck is queen bee. My best guess was that she was trying to contain the two 7s and maintain an option to make a move only after she administered her shit tests.

As best I can tell, the major mistake I made was making a clear play for the blonde 7 when my assessment of her status (relatively high, though artificially inflated due to my preference for how she comported herself) did not match the group's assessment. I had her ranked 2 of 6 while the group had her ranked 3 of 6, and the group's #2, the Attention Whore, was willing to engage in carpet bombing to achieve her goal.

In short . . . "women, right?!" Or maybe it's "people are the worst." I mean, why not Seinfeld? I already have Sartre and Chekov's Gun worked into the story.

So . . . yeah . . . it takes a lot to make me publish these days, but there ya go.